


Scripture

by paint_me_a_revolution



Series: The Magnus Library [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Library, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Asexual Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Canon Disabled Character, Jewish Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Trans Character, jon is a librarian basically, they all are
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:08:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 10,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25572598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paint_me_a_revolution/pseuds/paint_me_a_revolution
Summary: In which the Magnus Institute is actually a library, and its employees definitely don't have their shit together. They're trying, though. If only Leitner would stop "generously" donating books from his collection.
Relationships: Agnes Montague/Jude Perry, Basira Hussain/Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Georgie Barker/Melanie King, Gerard Keay/Michael Shelley, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Sasha James/Tim Stoker
Series: The Magnus Library [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1870033
Comments: 36
Kudos: 195





	1. Lemonade

The Magnus Library was always a bit dark. Tim flipped the light on and off a few times, as though he might make the break-room a little bit brighter through sheer force of will, but every time the bulb flickered on, it was the same dim, sickly green. It was on his third pass that he finally noticed the figure tucked away in one of the darkest corners, a sight that had him leaping back so hard his shoulder hit the closed door.

“Good morning, Tim.” The voice was soft, lilting, _grating._ Michael waved, beaded bracelets and heavy rings clicking loudly with every move of his hand. He didn’t look very busy, but he never really did.

“Morning, Michael.” Could he just…ignore him until he had a fresh cup of coffee in hand? No, not if he wanted to keep his reputation. “You’re here early.”

Michael laughed. “I’m about to leave, actually,” he said. “I’ve been here all night.” Nothing about his expression suggested he was joking, but…

“What could you possibly have been doing that required you to stay here all night?”

“Filing.” Michael laughed, a high, wavering sound that scraped itself from the back of his throat. His bracelets jangled as he pushed himself to his feet. “See you later.”

“See you,” Tim said. Well, at least he could drink his coffee in peace.

***

“I wonder where Jon is.”

“In the Archives.” Gerry took a bite of an apple that Tim was pretty sure had been liberated from Sasha’s shelf in the break-room. Juice from it trickled down his knuckles, and Tim had to look away as he licked it up. “Some first-year came in looking for…I think it was Freud? Or was it Faust?”

“We have _neither_ in the Archives,” Tim pointed out. Gerry took another bite of his apple and perched himself on the edge of the front desk. Tim swiped at his thigh. “Get off.” He took a moment to grit his teeth and take a deep breath when Gerry did neither. “He’s just hiding from Martin again, isn't he?”

Gerry’s resulting smile was a little bit vicious. “Didn’t ask,” he said. “But probably, knowing him.” Another bite of the apple. Again, he licked the juice from his knuckles and glanced sideways at Tim. “Sorry, am I bothering you?”

“Not at all.” Lying about inconveniences was—well, Tim supposed it was second nature by now. Years of telling people not to worry about bumping him on the Tube, or not to apologise for jumping the queue at Costa. “Listen, can you watch the desk for a bit? I haven’t had lunch yet.”

Gerry checked his watch (an actual fucking antique _pocket-watch,_ Tim noticed). “It’s not even half-twelve.”

“I’m hungry.” Tim stood up. “You can do what you’d like. There’s an event at 3:30, so I’ll be back before then.”

“That’s,” Gerry counted on his fingers for a moment, “almost a four hour break.”

“Well.” Tim could feel a smile trying to force its way past his faux-stoic expression. “I never said I’d be gone that long. Just want you to know in case I’m kidnapped on my way to the fridge.”

“I hope you choke,” Gerry mumbled. He tossed his half-eaten apple into the bin under the desk. Tim turned away to hide his laughter.

***

“We’ve got a few more from the Leitner collection.” Jon’s voice was soft and tired. He pulled on a pair of gloves before picking one of them up, and Tim was almost certain it wasn’t for the book’s sake. “Disgusting.”

“What is it?” Sasha asked, leaning over Jon’s shoulder to get a closer look. As one of her hands moved a little too close to his arm, Jon tensed considerably and his breath audibly caught. Guiltily, Sasha pulled back. “Sorry.” Nevertheless, she leaned over again as the panic faded from Jon’s eyes, staring at a stain on the inside cover. “Is that…?”

Jon wrinkled his nose in distaste. “Blood.” He ran a gloved finger over it and sighed. “Not sure if it’s human. Not sure how we’d even tell.” Gingerly, he set that book aside and reached for the next one; as he opened it up, Jon let out a shout and dropped it. Sasha stepped back, startled. Tim leaned forward, eager to see whatever horror had spooked them both, but the little spider that skittered onto the desk was rather disappointing.

“ _Tim,”_ Jon forced out through gritted teeth. “Tim, kill it. _Please.”_

“We don't need to kill it!” That was Martin, swooping in from out of nowhere to rescue the spider. “They’re quite friendly, you know.”

Jon eyed the upturned cup in Martin’s hand distastefully. “I hope you’re not going to put that back in the cupboard,” he said, struggling to keep his voice level.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” To the spider, Martin cooed, “let’s get you outside.”

Jon’s hands curled into tight fists. Tim couldn’t help comparing their scars; Jon’s were more apparent than Tim’s, an odd shade of silver-pink against freckled brown skin. “Stop talking to it, Martin,” Jon begged. Martin didn’t grace him with a response, just shuffled out with the spider in tow. Jon huffed angrily and shoved himself back from the desk. “I’m not touching another fucking Leitner.”

***

It was 6pm. “I’m leaving,” Tim announced to no one in particular. Sasha jumped up, offering to drive him home (an offer Tim eagerly accepted). As he climbed into the passenger seat of her car, Sasha adjusted the radio settings and glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. He glanced back, butterflies creeping from his stomach and into his chest. She looked good in the parking lot’s pale yellow lighting, dark skin glowing in a way that Tim _knew_ wasn’t from inside, but that felt like it was coming from her all the same. Long eyelashes cast shadows on her cheeks, like spider-legs.

“Sasha,” said Tim, voice sticking in his throat. That was all he managed to say, because she interrupted with,

“Want to grab a bite with me? It’s only 6:15.”

Tim sounded only mildly overeager as he replied with, “ _Yes.”_

It wasn’t hard to pick a place. Sasha wanted chicken, and Tim wanted Sasha’s company, so they settled on Nando’s with very little fuss. As Sasha dug into her chicken wrap, Tim sipped his cloudy lemonade and watched her. “That any good?” he asked. She nodded, mouth full, and gestured to his lemonade. _Good?_ “Yeah. Yes. Want a sip?”

Sasha swallowed her food. “No, I’m fine. Don’t really like the cloudy stuff. It’s too sour.”

“Sasha James! _”_ Tim’s voice was affronted, but his smile was so wide it made his cheeks ache. “The cloudy stuff is the best.”

“I’ll raise you, Barr.”

“God, no.”

“What’s wrong with Barr?”

After their meal, Sasha dropped Tim at his flat. When he glanced back to say goodbye, there was something wistful, something _longing_ in her expression. Or, Tim told himself, it might just have been his imagination.


	2. Jurgen Fucking Leitner

Gerry hadn’t slept. The new Leitner delivery hung over his head like a dark cloud, even as he slammed back his third shot of espresso and tried to focus on _anything_ else. From the corner of his eye, he could see Daisy eyeing him hungrily. Or, well, maybe she was eyeing his bagel, which Gerry was sure she’d enjoy more than her cup of fruit. “Morning,” she grumbled as she caught his eye, thick and sleepy and annoyed.

“Morning,” Gerry returned, mouth full.

“Did you get a chance to go through the new shipment?”

“You know about that?”

Daisy’s radio crackled with static. She ignored it. “Had to bring it in. Elias said it was ‘important’.”

“It _was_ ‘important,’ actually,” Gerry pointed out, mirroring her air-quotes. “More from the Leitner collection.”

At that, Daisy made a noise like a startled cat. She looked down at her hands, as though they might be contaminated with any number of things. “Anything…anything _gross_ in any of them?”

Gerry took great pains to tell her about the blood, and the spider, and the weird green powder that had come off on his hands when he picked up a particularly suspicious-looking journal. “Should’ve burned them, really,” he said, grinning. “Saved Jon the trouble.”

“Right.”

The door opened. “Daisy,” came a voice, low and even. “Are you threatening the day staff?”

“He’s threatening _me.”_

Basira clicked her tongue. Her shirt and hijab were the same shade of pastel blue, a colour Gerry couldn’t level against her sombre attitude. “Brought you lunch,” she said to Daisy, crossing the small break-room to hand her a brown paper bag. Daisy stretched up into her kiss, unfolding from her usual hunched position clumsily. “Tell me it’s not a salad.”

“…”

“ _Basira.”_

“It’s not.”

Gerry polished off his bagel and licked the cream cheese off his fingers as Basira and Daisy bickered in the background. As nice as it was, he had work to do.

***

“This is _vile.”_

Jon’s green eyes twinkled with barely hidden amusement. “It’s not _that_ bad,” he said, prying open the cover of another Leitner. He pulled a face. “I take it back. Why is it _sticky?”_

“It’s a Leitner. Of course it’s sticky.” Martin seemed to be doing much better than Gerry and Jon, having already reached the bottom of his box. “I wonder what this one’s about,” he mused to himself, turning a thick, leather-bound book around to examine its Latin title.

Jon groaned. “Don’t fucking read it out loud,” he begged. “It’s probably cursed.”

Ever the contrarian, Martin started to read the text aloud. Jon made a sound that was almost a growl and tried to wrestle the book from Martin’s hands, but Martin was the larger and more physically capable of them and won without much of an effort on his side. Gerry took the opportunity to hoist himself up onto the Archive’s worn worktable, groaning a little as something at the base of his spine popped and clicked. Jon glanced away from Martin to give Gerry a disapproving look, but said nothing.

***

Michael’s curls were a mess. He stared down at the papers on his desk and Gerry stared at him, wondering when he’d gotten those dark bags under his eyes. “Michael,” he said softly, and then louder when Michael didn’t seem to hear him.

“What do you want?” It wasn’t angry, just slow and dragging, as though every word took Herculean effort to produce.

“We were supposed to have lunch together,” Gerry reminded him gently. “In the break-room, at half one. You…I wanted to make sure you were all right.”

At that, Michael glanced up. “ _Shit,”_ he hissed. “Gerry, I am _so_ sorry.”

“It’s all right.” Awkwardly, he brandished the bag in his hand. “I actually, ah, brought it with me. Just in case you were hungry.”

“Oh.” Michael leaned back, considering. He laid a hand on his stomach absently, a frown stretching at the corners of his mouth and said, “I would like very much for you to sit down, Gerry. You make me nervous, hovering like that.”

Gerry wasted no time in taking the only other seat at Michael’s desk, directly across from him. Michael fixed large, bright eyes on him and smiled. A hot flush spread up Gerry’s neck and into his cheeks, so he busied himself with unpacking the various containers of food he’d brought. As he did, he explained what was in each. Michael took the information with nothing but a steady smile and an intense look in his eyes. When Gerry set a plate in front of him, he raised one thin brow in a silent question.

“Wanted it to feel like a proper lunch,” Gerry mumbled into the tomato salad, face hot again.

“It’s food, and it’s lunchtime,” Michael said with a sideways glance at the clock above the door. “Well, sort of. Regardless, it feels like a ‘proper lunch’.”

Gerry grinned. “Well,” he said, warm in a new, more pleasant way. “Please, eat.”


	3. Frankenstein's Monster

“Mr Sims, are you all right?”

There was a spider on the wall. It hovered right behind Annabelle Cane’s shoulder, all fat-bodied and long-limbed. Had he been alone, Jon might have thrown something at it. As it was, however, he cleared his throat and glanced back down at his book. “Perfectly fine, Agnes. Please, tell me what you thought of this chapter.”

“I thought…” Agnes shook her head a little, looking pained at all of the attention, and said, “I didn’t really understand his motives. Frankenstein’s, I mean.” Awkwardly, she dragged a fingernail down the neatly stacked pages, making it ripple.

“He wanted to play God.” Jude’s voice managed to be both derisive and questioning at the same time. “Right, Mr Sims?”

“I…” Not for the first time since they’d started, Jon wished he hadn’t let Tim sweet-talk him into getting a day off. “Ah, yes. I suppose he did, in a way.” 

“Maybe he was lonely,” Jane Prentiss offered up from behind her own book.

The spider inched closer to Annabelle Cane’s shoulder. Jon wondered if she knew about it. “Maybe,” he echoed. A pause, as he considered what to say, and then Jon opened his mouth again. “Ah, Annabelle? There’s, well…behind you, there…”

Annabelle turned. There were also spiders on her earrings, Jon noticed, their bodies made of round silver balls that dangled inside a circle of matte black metal. “Oh, _hello!”_ she cooed. Jon couldn’t see her face, just the mass of curly blonde hair on the back of her head, but he could _hear_ the smile in her voice. “She’s just a common house spider, Mr Sims.”

“Well, if she’s so harmless _,”_ Jon said, “why don’t you get her out of here?” One hand curled instinctively around the arm of his chair, and he felt like shrinking under Annabelle’s scrutiny. He took a deep breath, willing his voice to hold more authority than he felt, and told her, “Now.”

Annabelle huffed, but she coaxed the spider into the palm of her hand and disappeared around the door. Agnes stared at her borrowed copy of Frankenstein with empty eyes. Jude Perry looked at Agnes, her eyes considerably more alive. There was a long pause as Anabelle re-joined the group where everyone seemed to hold their breath, and then Jared Hopworth raised his hand. Jon gestured for him to speak.

“Mr Sims,” he started, voice far lower than Jon’s had been at his age, “did Frankenstein technically invent the first sex doll?”

_God._ Tim was going to pay for this. 

***

“You look tired.”

“Stop talking.” Jon leaned into Martin’s embrace, brushing a kiss over the other man’s temple. Martin opened his mouth and turned a bit, so Jon kissed his mouth next time instead. “I said don’t talk.”

“You’re bossy.” But Martin didn’t complain, just let Jon comb through his curly hair and stroke his cheek.

“I’m _tired.”_ Jon finally settled, curling a little into Martin’s soft, warm side. “Tim had me running Book Club.”

Martin’s eyes widened. “How’d that go?” he asked, unable to keep the amusement out of his voice.

“Jared Hopworth wanted to know whether Frankenstein had invented the first sex doll.”

“And? What did you tell him?”

“There wasn’t anything to tell,” Jon insisted, though Martin’s hand rubbing circles into his back was more than enough to distract him from the remaining stress of his hour with the teens. “How was your day?”

“Allowed to talk now, am I?”

“It’s not like you ever stopped.” Jon’s smile was soft, fond. He rested a hand over Martin’s heart. “Come on, Martin.”

Martin ran a hand through his hair and adjusted his glasses in one practiced motion. “It was _fine,_ ” he said at last. “Tim and Sasha couldn’t keep their hands off each other for five minutes at a time, which was— _well.”_ He laughed, tangling his fingers with Jon’s, and added, “I’m sure you can imagine.”

“I’m sure I can.”

***

“Did you get around to that Fairchild review?”

“Not yet.” Jon stared into his empty mug, hoping against hope that Elias would go away. Instead of leaving, Elias leaned into the doorframe, a clear, wordless indication that he and his stupidly expensive suit were planning to stay a while. “There aren’t enough hours in the day, Elias, really.”

“ _Jon.”_ Elias’s voice was infuriatingly patronising, a low, amused rumble of sound that grated on every single one of Jon’s nerves. “I had convinced myself you’d be done with it by now. Mr Fairchild is, well, he’s eagerly awaiting your opinion.”

Jon snorted. “No he’s not.” Before Elias could argue, he added, “I’ll get right on it, Elias.” He picked up a folder at random and opened it. “Please, I can’t read it with you hovering over my shoulder.”

“Of course.” Elias still seemed reluctant to leave, so Jon put his headphones on and waited. Finally, after what seemed like ages, the door clicked shut. Jon breathed out. A quick glance at the folder in front of him revealed that it was _not_ the Fairchild review, so Jon set it aside and spent a few minutes finding the right folder. It was quite a bit smaller than the others, thankfully, but as Jon skimmed it he couldn’t shake the feeling that it was incomplete.

“It isn’t like Simon Fairchild to write a three page review,” he said to Gerry over lunch. Gerry said nothing back, too busy tucking into a thermos of stew to bother with words. Michael read the first paragraph before shoving it back into Jon’s hands with a huff. “Weird, isn’t it?”

“It is…odd,” Michael agreed, “but not alarming. Maybe he realises that sometimes the best gift a person can give is silence.”

“Unlikely.” That was Gerry. “Check who wrote the book, Jon.”

“It’s…” Jon scanned the first page. “It’s a Jurgen Leitner original.”

Michael hummed, like that explained everything. “I hope Elias doesn’t expect us to read it,” he mused, twisting a lock of hair around his fingers. “The last one was _dreadful,_ wasn’t it?”

“They all blur together, I’m afraid.” Jon tucked the review back in its folder. “I couldn’t even tell you what the last one was about, just that it was as poorly written as all the others. And,” he added, drumming his fingers against his knee as he did, “Elias made me promote it for three weeks. He only let me stop because people complained.”

“Leitner does fund the Archive,” Michael pointed out. “A shitty reason to promote his work, granted, but no one ever said Elias was capable of rational thought.”

“I think Elias said it once.”

“Elias doesn’t count.”

Unfortunately for Jon, Elias had a copy of Leitner’s new book waiting on his desk when he returned from lunch. Reading it, he almost wished he’d decided to become an accountant. Anything was better than this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, thanks to everyone who's actually sticking with this! I'd like to put on the record that Frankenstein did not invent the first sex doll. If you liked this, consider leaving a review!


	4. Biscuits and Carpeting

“All right, Sasha James?”

Sasha was not all right. Who in their right mind went out on a Sunday, knowing they had work on Monday? Her head was pounding, her mouth simultaneously dry and sticky, and every time she took a step she could feel her insides rearrange themselves. Nikola beamed at her from the checkout desk, all blindingly white teeth and stupidly orange blouse.

“Fine, Nikola.”

Nikola stood up. “I was reading this book over the weekend,” she said, blissfully unaware of Sasha’s predicament, “and I thought to myself, ‘ooh, Sash might like it, she just might!’”

Sasha was _not_ interested. “What was it about?” she asked anyway, wondering if she had the guts to take off her sunglasses now that she was indoors. Nikola made a noise between a squeal and a laugh.

“Perfume! It was all about making perfume! I thought, since you always smell so _nice,_ you might enjoy it!”

“I might, thank you.” Sasha wouldn’t. She’d worn the same perfume since she was seventeen, but Nikola didn’t need to know that. “Why don’t you leave it in my cubby? I’ll check it out after I do inventory.”

Nikola seemed pleased with that. All for the best, Sasha thought, as she was only seconds away from losing her dignity entirely. “I’ll catch you later,” she said through clenched teeth, and hurried into the break-room.

“Rough night?”

Sasha jumped. Gerry waved at her. “Hangover,” she told him. “What’re you doing in the dark?”

“Awaiting my destiny.”

“Come off it.”

“I’m serious.” It was almost pitch-black, but somehow Sasha could still make out his grin. “My knight in shining armour will be here any minute to sweep me off my feet. We’re going to make passionate love and then he’s going to buy me a curry and spoon me while we watch Love, Actually.”

“Too much information, Gerry. Way too much.” Sasha nudged his foot with her knee until he pulled up his legs enough for her to squeeze onto the couch next to him. “God, I should never have gone out last night. Should have told Tim to fuck off.”

Gerry kicked Sasha’s thigh. “You went out with Tim?” he yelled. The noise made lights go off behind Sasha’s eyes. She shushed him. “Sasha James, tell me everything.”

“There’s not much to tell,” Sasha insisted, but even so she settled into the couch and started to tell anyway.

***

“Excuse me? Miss?”

Sasha looked up. “Agnes,” she greeted. “Find what you were looking for?”

Agnes Montague shrugged and unloaded a stack of books onto the desk in front of Sasha. “I wanted to check these out.”

“All of them?” A quick count added up to…”Agnes, you're not allowed seven books at a time. The limit is five.”

“I know.” Agnes shuffles her feet. Sasha’s pretty sure her jumper belongs to Jude Perry. “But I always go through them so quickly, and I was hoping…”

“I’ll talk to Jon.”

“Thanks, Miss James.”

Sasha tucked the books under her side of the desk. “Back in a tick.”

Jon was, surprisingly, actually in his office. “ _Seven_ books?” he said incredulously when Sasha told him, but he nodded anyway and followed her out into the library proper. “I’m going to make an exception,” the librarian told Agnes as he leaned over Sasha’s shoulder to fiddle with the computer. “And you’re going to bring these back promptly when you’ve finished. Yes?” He gathered the stack of books and passed them to Agnes, who took them with a shy grin.

“Yes.”

“That was nice of you,” Sasha commented as Agnes disappeared through the exit. Jon, who was watching after Agnes with a fond smile on his face, nodded. Speaking of things that belonged to other people… “Is that Martin’s jumper?”

“Hmm?” Jon’s cheeks went red in an instant, and he tugged nervously at a lock of hair as he said, “Yes. I got a bit mixed up this morning.”

“You were at Martin’s this morning?” Sasha swivelled in her chair. “Jonathan Sims, what on _Earth—?”_

“It wasn’t like that!” Jon protested.

“Then what was it like?”

“I’m going back to my office.” Jon turned on his heel and started to leave. Sasha leapt up.

“No you don’t, Jonathan,” she started, but he was less hung-over and far faster. “I’ll find you later!” she called after him.

***

Sasha spent the afternoon processing a rather large order. It should have been Jon’s job, really – after all, Gertrude had done it all by herself and she was ancient – but he’d been holed up with Elias for three hours by the time it came in and there was little in the world that Sasha wanted to do less than interrupt them. Ergo, she’d sat with her laptop and a catalogue and occasionally asked Gerry to check how many copies they had of certain books. Michael’s voice drifted over from the children’s section, animatedly going through the twists and turns of a Dr Seuss book. Last Sasha had seen, Basira was tucked away in the stacks, pretending to work while she devoured the contents of yet another book.

“You hungry?” she asked Tim at six, already reaching for her coat and purse. He grinned at her, like they didn’t go through this routine almost every night.

“Where’ve you got in mind?”

Without thinking, Sasha said, “My place,” and felt her stomach drop as it registered. “I mean, if that’s all right with you.”

Tim’s answering smile suggested it was _very_ okay. She exchanged glances and grins with him as she drove to her flat, laughed at every one of his jokes, and tried to ignore her pounding heart and the butterflies in her stomach. As they stepped through her front door, Tim whistled.

“Nice place.”

Sasha turned red. “Thanks. Take off your shoes, please.”

“Oh, it’s that kind of flat?”

“What’re you gonna do about it?”

Tim laughed, bending down to unlace his boots. “I’m not a monster. I’ll play by house rules.”

Sasha rolled her eyes. “I’ve got carpeting, Tim.” She hung her coat and purse on their designated hooks and deposited her keys in their dish, all the while acutely aware of Tim’s eyes on her. “Do you like pasta?”

“ _Love_ pasta _.”_

So Sasha made them pasta with pesto. Tim hovered by the kitchen counter the whole time, cracking jokes and making small talk. It felt strange, and at the same time so natural; standing in her own kitchen, with Tim standing nearby, Sasha felt whole.

He kissed her later over a glass of wine and a plate of biscuits. She kissed him back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, everyone can have a little TimSash. As a treat. As always, please consider leaving a review if you liked this update!


	5. Stapled Together

If Helen wouldn’t stop moving his things, Michael was going to do something drastic. “I didn’t leave you there yesterday,” he remarked to the stapler. To the paperweight, he added, “Or you.”

There was a laugh from the doorway. “You talking to inanimate objects again?”

“I, ah—“ Michael frowned and pulled his hands through his hair, glaring weakly at Gerry. “Helen moved my things again.” He gestured vaguely at the stapler, which had the audacity to still be in the wrong spot.

“She did _not._ ”

Michael gritted his teeth. “I know you think this is terribly funny,” he snapped, “but I can’t get anything done if I can’t _find_ anything.”

Gerry gave a disapproving hum, leaning back against the doorframe with his arms crossed. “Is there anything I can actually do to help?” he asked. “If not, I think I’ll just go shelve the Leitners.”

“You hate the Leitners.”

Gerry’s shrug was probably exaggerated for Michael’s benefit. “It’s better than bearing witness to your slow descent into madness.”

“Is it a slow descent if I’ve been at the bottom of the incline since Tuesday afternoon?”

Fond laughter was Gerry’s first response. “I’ll leave you to it,” he said around a chuckle. “Door open, or closed?”

“Closed.”

The door clicked shut. Michael returned to staring at the stapler. “You,” he said, “have some serious explaining to do.”

***

“Jon?”

There was the sound of a heavy book landing on the carpeted floor, and then Jon opened the door to his office. “Michael,” he greeted, sounding only a little surprised. He looked…flustered? Michael peered around him into what little of the office was visible. “What is it?”

“What are you doing?”

“I…” Jon tilted his head, considering. Several of the honeycomb scars on his face were an angry red, like he’d been scratching at them. There was a halo of darker skin around some of them, where his skin had tried to heal wounds that kept being picked open. “I was praying, Michael. I do that sometimes.”

“Oh?” Michael chewed his lip. “What was that…that banging sound?” He clapped his hands in an imitation of the noise.

Jon’s mouth twisted impatiently. “I dropped my siddur,” he mumbled. “And I’d like to pick it up, so if you could come in?” He stepped back from the door, an invitation. Michael blinked, startled.

“Oh, sure.”

The office had gone through several changes since Gertrude passed. The first was the carpet, which had been torn up to remove any trace of the old woman’s grisly murder. In place of the awful patterned thing, Jon had apparently requested one in dark green. It looked fresh, soft. Michael resisted the urge to lean down and touch it. There were pictures on Jon’s desk. One of them in particular caught Michael’s eye; a woman with Jon’s complexion and curly hair grinned at the camera, a round, smiling little boy in her arms while a tall white man with Jon’s eyes and close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair gazed fondly at both of them. As Jon caught him looking, Michael glanced away.

“Are those your parents?”

“Ah, yes they are, actually.” Jon smiled a little. “What did you need, Michael? I doubt you came here to talk about my parents.”

“Right.” Michael cleared his throat. “I-I…well. Gertrude used to…is there any way I could bar someone from Thursday’s Reading Corner?”

Jon looked genuinely surprised. “You want to ban a _six year old_ from the library?”

“Not from the library,” Michael clarified, “just my group. He…bit me.”

“What?”

“Like some sort of rabid animal.”

“If it comforts you, rabies has been all but eliminated from the United Kingdom.”

“It does not.” 

With a sigh, Jon dropped heavily into his desk chair. “I’ll see what I can do, Michael,” he said. “I can’t promise anything, but I’ll talk to Elias.”

“Thank you.”

***

Martin took one look at Michael’s arm and recommended a tetanus shot. “You never know what’s in kids’ mouths,” he pointed out as he prodded at the wound, frowning. “Mud. Worms.”

“ _Worms?”_

“It’s more common than you think.” Martin’s dark eyes peered out from behind his circular glasses, and he grinned a little bit at Michael’s expression. “Kids will eat, well, anything they can get their hands on.”

“You sound…very informed.”

Martin laughed. “I licked a toaster when I was seven.”

“Really?”

Another laugh. “I knew it was where the toast came out of,” Martin explained. He ran a hand through his hair sheepishly. “Just…wasn’t all that aware of how it actually worked. Learnt a lesson that day.”

“How unexpected.” Michael sat back against the couch cushions. “Do you reckon the shot can wait? I was hoping to get a full eight hours of sleep tonight.”

“It _can,”_ Martin said, “but then you’ll die of tetanus and Jon will have to hire someone else.”

“Jon didn’t hire me.”

“ _Elias_ will have to hire someone else, and he’ll give Jon a real talking to, and then Jon will give _me_ a real talking to.” With a shrug, Martin stood up. “Get the shot, Michael. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Not if I’m dead, you won’t.”

“Oh, piss off.” Martin left. Michael slumped back in his seat, sighing, as he deliberated on what to do next. Finally, he grabbed his phone and dialled.

“Hey, Gerry, this is Michael. I won’t be making our date tonight. A child bit me. It isn’t a big deal. Just…call back when you get this.”


	6. September Heat

“Martin.”

Martin didn’t look up. Unbidden, his heart flipped in his chest a little at the sound of Jon’s voice. “Martin,” Jon said again, insistent this time.

“What is it?”

“I need your help with something.”

Which would have been fine, except…”I’m in the middle of something, Jon. I’m sorry.” Martin turned to the next page of his book. “Can it wait a few hours?”

Suddenly, Jon was leaning over Martin’s shoulder. “Is that another Leitner?” he asked.

“It’s, er, it’s actually a Smirke.”

Jon huffed out a laugh. “Didn’t realise we had anything of his,” he said.

“You…you didn’t?” Martin turned, curious and excited despite himself. “I found it in the Archive, actually. It was in…in this little box, and I-I…should I have left it?”

“No.” With a sigh, Jon straightened up. “I assume it was tucked away by Gertrude before she…before she _left._ I suppose I should ask Gerry. _”_

“Or Michael.”

“I’m not going to ask _Michael.”_

Martin laughed. “Well, I’m not going to stop reading, Jon. As soon as Elias heard I’d found the book he practically ordered me to read it.”

Jon frowned. “Didn't know Elias had an interest in architecture,” he commented, scratching absentmindedly at the scars on his cheek. Martin gave a breathy laugh.

“I don’t think he does actually. The book’s… _weird.”_ He gestured vaguely at it, and added, “I think Smirke might have been involved in some very shady things, Jon. Very shady.”

Jon’s answering laugh was bright. “I’ll leave you to it,” he said.

***

Gerry didn’t seem pleased to see Martin’s new book. “It’s a Smirke,” he said in that soft, dry voice, and fixed his eyes on Martin like he was studying for an exam. “Gertrude Robinson liked the works of Robert Smirke. I, personally, do not.”

“Not even his buildings?” Martin asked before he could stop himself. Gerry glared.

“I should have specified,” he sighed out. “I meant his written works.”

“They’re certainly a bit odd,” Martin agreed. He drummed his fingers on the cover and ignored the resulting glare Gerry fixed on him. “Elias asked me to read it.”

Gerry brought up a tattooed hand to tug at his hair, a habit he hadn’t broken since Martin had met him three years ago. Gerry was tall, though (shorter than Martin) around 181 centimetres, with long limbs and high, sharp cheekbones that were at odds with his otherwise soft face. His nose, lips, and chin were delicate, his eyes dark and intense. And of course, there were the modifications. He favoured black dye for his hair, and spiked jewellery for his facial piercings. Martin couldn’t imagine how much his tattoos had cost – probably a lot, he reckoned, for what seemed to be a simple collection of black-lined eyes. The ones on his fingers were almost unrecognisable, the ink bled out into the skin around them as it tended to do, but Martin knew they were eyes all the same.

“Of course Elias asked you,” he said after an uncomfortable pause. “I’ll go see if Michael has anything interesting to offer.” He mumbled a terse greeting to Melanie as he slipped past her and into the corridor.

“Rough day at work?”

Martin snorted. “Not so bad,” he said. “You?”

“Just another day in paradise.” She sat down, denim jacket rustling, and patted the empty spot next to her. Martin sat, and immediately felt her cane tap against his ankle once, twice. The first time she’d done it, he’d assumed it was accidental, a miscalculation made as she mapped out her environment. Now, he knew it was a sign of affection, a way for her to say ‘ _I’m here’_ without ever having to open her mouth. “Got another collab offer. Who knew being a _blind_ ghost hunter would be more profitable?” 

Martin snorted. “People are intrigued,” he said.

“People are inherently voyeuristic. I blew up my career in spectacular fashion, and now everyone around me is rubbernecking, trying to see the crash before it gets cleaned up.”

“You sound like Jon.”

Melanie laughed. “God forbid.” She sighed, dragging a hand through her hair (blue and green this month, but last month it had been purple), and pulled one leg up so she could rest her chin on her knee. “I think I’m going to do it. The video.”

Martin smiled. “That’s good.”

“Yeah.” Melanie’s answering smile was wavering, but her resolve seemed stronger than it had been in a while. “Yeah, I think it will be.”

***

It was unbearably hot, at least for September. Martin wiped a trickle of sweat from his brow with a neatly folded handkerchief and sighed. If only Elias could convince the board to invest in proper air conditioning, now that London’s temperature crept steadily upwards every year. But every time he mentioned it, Elias got this odd little gleam in his unsettling green eyes and he looked like he was trying to _smile,_ and Martin hated it. So Martin suffered in silence, and he assumed the others did the same.

Agnes dropped a stack of books onto the desk in front of Martin. “I’m returning these,” she said, and Martin had to look twice, because he counted _seven_ of them. He gnawed on the inside of his cheek for a moment, thinking.

“Agnes,” he started after a moment’s pause, “I’m not sure how you managed to take out seven books.” He started processing the return anyway, as Agnes swayed side-to-side and hummed quietly. “Are you coming along to book club this week?”

The girl nodded, tugging at her auburn hair. She stopped her humming to ask, “Is Mr Sims running it this week?”

Martin couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up at her eager expression. He’d have to tell Jon that his suffering hadn’t been for naught. “I’m afraid you’ll be stuck with Mr Stoker again.”

“Oh, all right.” She paused, as though thinking, and then said, “Will you tell him I thought he did well? He seemed nervous.” 

“I’m sure he’ll appreciate that, Agnes.”

Agnes smiled one last time and left. Martin finished processing her returns and mopping the sweat from his brow and neck. _Christ._ He was definitely going to ask Elias about getting some air conditioning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, a chapter focused on everyone's favourite Latin-speaker. As always, consider leaving me a review if you liked this update! Seeing and responding to your comments fills me with pure joy!


	7. Slowing Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right-o. There's some sexual themes in this chapter -- nothing explicit, but I figured I'd pop a warning in just in case. If you'd like to skip, only read the first two sections and you'll be in the clear. Like I said, though, it's nothing more than a little rough snogging.

Tim kept getting butterflies in his stomach when he looked at Sasha. Sometimes he caught sight of her out of the corner of his eye and felt his chest fill with static. Other times, he heard her voice and felt his heart skip a beat. _Get a grip, Stoker._ But lord, her smile. _It was one kiss. One kiss doesn’t mean this is a thing._

Sasha’s hand on the small of his back as she passed him in the stacks meant _something,_ though. Tim was sure of it. He thought about turning around, about catching her wrist before she was out of reach and asking, but she moved too fast. His fingers closed around empty air.

“You’ve got it bad,” Basira pointed out from behind a disproportionately large book. Tim was convinced she picked big books specifically for the purpose of hiding behind them. Dramatic effect, or something like that.

“Shut up,” he told her. Basira closed the book, smirking. Tim wondered how much trouble he’d be in if he didn’t finish his re-shelving. It would be more trouble than it was worth, probably, and Basira would see it as running away (she’d be right). “Listen, it’s nothing.”

Basira tucked the book back into its empty spot and got to her feet, brushing bits of imaginary dust from the knees of her jeans. “Doesn’t look like nothing,” she said lightly. “Looks like flirting. I’m pretty sure that’s against library policy, you know.”

“Elias is literally fucking one of our biggest patrons, but go off.”

“Elias can do what he wants. He’s the boss.”

“Jon’s the boss. You don’t see him wandering around getting handsy with his coworkers.”

Basira blinked at Tim, a different smile spreading over her face. It was the kind of smile that told Tim he was the biggest idiot in the building, possibly even in the country. “ _Is he?”_ Tim yelped. Basira tapped a finger against her lips in a shushing motion and opened another book.

***

Sasha and Nikola were talking. Tim hadn’t meant to notice them, but Sasha’s yellow headband and Nikola’s polka-dotted dress made it hard to ignore either of them. Of course, Tim thought, Sasha suited bright colours better than her companion, whose pale skin looked waxy against the overwhelming mess of her dress. Sasha, on the other hand, looked as put together as ever in her pale yellow blouse and black pencil skirt. Tim followed the curve of her leg down to the sensible black pumps she had on. _Jesus,_ he thought, _stop being a creeper._

Apparently Gerry had the same thought. “Pure thoughts only,” he said as he passed by. Tim grunted at him. “What? This is a library, Tim. There are _children_ present.”

“No there aren’t,” said Michael. As usual, he’d appeared so suddenly that Tim’s only indication he’d arrived was the sound of his voice. With a gesture at the kids sitting in the children’s section, the librarian added, “Those are demons. Easy mistake to make, really.”

Gerry hummed. “What’s the expression?” He paused for dramatic effect, before snapping his fingers like he’d had a realisation. “Once bitten, twice shy.”

Michael fixed him with a glare that could kill. Tim tried –and spectacularly failed – to hold back a snort of laughter. “Sorry,” he gasped out between giggles, and wondered whether Michael was going to take his revenge now, or in six months when Tim had forgotten all about it. As he pulled himself together and opened his mouth to say he needed to get back to work, Tim felt a hand squeeze his bicep.

“Can we talk?” Sasha asked. She smiled at Michael and Gerry, but her eyes were fixed on Tim.

“Go get ‘em,” Gerry mouthed. Tim flipped him off.

“Of course,” he said to Sasha, and let her guide him out of everyone’s way, to a spot where they wouldn’t be disturbed, but if something came up they could still do their jobs.

She took a deep breath. “Did I do something wrong, Tim?”

“I—what?”

Sasha pursed her lips. “Did I do something wrong the other night?” she repeated. Her tone was firm, but her eyes were soft and unsure. “I thought…”

Tim’s stomach dropped. “No!” he cried out. She shushed him. Quieter, he continued, “No, I…I really liked…all of it.” He paused, too awkward to say anything else, and only looked up when he felt Sasha’s fingers lace with his. “I’d like to do it again.”

“Me too.” Sasha smiled, and when she laughed the skin around her eyes crinkled up a little. “God, Tim, you had me worried. I thought, _it was just a kiss, couldn’t have been that bad._ And then I thought, oh god, could it?”

Tim laughed. “No. No, Sash, it was just me being an idiot.”

“So…dinner later?”

“My place, this time.”

***

As it turned out, spending time with Sasha was more fun when both of them knew what they wanted. They were barely through Tim’s front door before she had him up against a wall, her mouth on his and his hands on her sides, her back, anywhere he could reach. “We should slow down,” she suggested breathlessly, tugging ineffectively at the buttons of Tim’s shirt.

“Do you want to?”

She laughed. “No.”

Tim leaned back against the wall as she managed to undo the buttons at the bottom of his shirt. “Do I get to do yours next?” he asked, eyeing the row of neat closures on her blouse. Her answering grin was so joyful it was contagious. Tim felt himself grinning back. Suddenly, though, she paused. He froze, too, worried. “Is everything okay?”

“Fine.” Sasha’s stomach grumbled, and she laughed sheepishly. “I’m hungry. Maybe we could pick this up after we eat?” 

“Whatever pleases you, Miss James.” Tim gave an exaggerated little bow. “I’m not a great cook, if I’m honest. How do you feel about a curry? There’s a great place just down the street. Delivers and everything.”

Sasha pulled him in and kissed him one last time. “Curry’s fine,” she agreed. “I’m more excited about what comes after.”


	8. Tonic

Basira liked the stacks. It was quiet, even quieter than the rest of the library, and there was something satisfying about listening to the hushed sounds of her own breathing, of pages rusting as she turned them, the creaking and crackling of spines adjusting as she opened long untouched books. She even enjoyed the gritty, powdery residue left on her hands by deteriorating covers and delicate pages.

She didn’t love the company of the other people who frequented the stacks. Anywhere else, she enjoyed the presence of her co-workers. She liked Tim’s loud laughter, the sound of Gerry’s various chains jangling, even Helen’s disproportionate excitement at everything she encountered. In the stacks, though, it was grating. So it felt almost violating when Helen dropped into the space between Basira and the closest shelf.

“Hello!” Her voice was less grating than Michael’s, but only barely. Basira often wondered if being just to the left of normal was a prerequisite for inhabiting Michael and Helen’s shared office space. Looking at Helen for any length of time was a bit like looking at modern art, in that she was sure there was meaning to be found, but whatever it was went right over her head. Today, for example, her blouse was blue with orange polka dots, and her tight pencil skirt was a slightly brighter orange to match. Her earrings were composed of three dangling yellow spheres, and her eyeshadow was a similar yellow, warm and shimmering against her smooth, dark skin. She looked like a headache, but one Basira didn’t mind enduring.

“How’s it going?” Basira asked, instead of following her instinct to scoot away. Helen beamed.

“It’s good, actually,” she gushed, as over-excited as she ever was. Basira couldn’t imagine what constant excitement felt like, but she assumed it was exhausting. “Michael moved my stapler again, but I’ve set it right now.” She didn’t seem bothered in the slightest. “Oh, and Elias gave me permission for that group I wanted to start.”

“That’s great!” Basira racked her brain for any memory of the group Helen was referring to, and came up blank. “Anyway, Helen, I’ve got to get back to work.” She shrugged, trying for apologetic. “Catch you later?”

“Always.”

Basira nodded, turned on her heel, and found a new corner to tuck herself into.

***

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

Basira looked up. Jon continued to tap his fingers against the side of the sink as he waited for the kettle to boil, oblivious. With his other hand, he scrolled through his phone. Every so often, he huffed out what might have been a laugh. It might have been endearing, maybe, if Basira hadn’t been trying to enjoy her break.

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

“Stop it,” she said. Jon looked up, startled, fingers clenching protectively around his phone. He didn’t know, Basira realised. “You’re tapping your fingers against the sink. It’s irritating.”

An embarrassed red flush pooled under Jon’s skin. “So sorry,” he mumbled, before being distracted by the soft _ding_ of the kettle going off. He reached for it, missed the handle by several centimetres, and hissed as his fingertips came into contact with the hot plastic side. “ _Fuck.”_

Basira pursed her lips. “If I’d known it’d get you this flustered, I wouldn’t have said anything.”

Jon shook out his burned hand with a grimace. “It’s fine,” he told her. “I didn’t even realise I was doing it.”

“Something on your mind?”

“Not unless you count TV static as a form of thought.”

So it was one of those days. Basira nodded her head and took a bite of her sandwich, aiming for casual. The dry bread stuck to the roof of her mouth. Jon blinked a few times, clearly expecting her to say something in response, so she circled a finger in the direction of her face a couple of times, indicating that she needed a moment. “Ever thought about taking a day off?” she asked when she was done chewing. From the way Jon blinked at her, she deduced that he hadn’t. “Well, I’m off early today. Daisy and I have plans.”

“Ah.” Jon turned back to preparing his tea. “Lovely chatting with you, Basira. I hope tonight is…fulfilling.”

Despite herself, Basira smiled. “I think it will be.”

***

“I can’t believe you told him we had plans,” Daisy giggled into her gin and tonic. Basira sipped her own drink (iced tea with a generous spoonful of honey) and grinned.

“Isn’t this plans?” she asked with mock innocence, nudging Daisy’s bare thigh with her foot. Daisy snorted.

“This,” the woman said with a sweeping gesture at the scene before her, “is getting drunk and watching bad telly.”

“Uh-huh.” Basira kissed Daisy. Against her wife’s lips, she mumbled, “plans.” Daisy leaned into the kiss, and Basira groaned as the other woman’s fingernails scraped against her scalp. A drop of Daisy’s drink sloshed over the rim of her glass, but neither of them paid it any mind.

“God, I love you,” Daisy breathed. Basira pulled back to look into Daisy’s eyes, wide and blue and full of adoration. Daisy could be rough, from her callused hands to the way she sometimes selected her words with seemingly no regard for how others might respond, but with Basira she was utterly soft.

“Put your drink down.” Basira waited for Daisy to comply, and did the same with her own. Daisy looked at her, face open and curious, and broke into a wide grin as Basira moved closer. Swinging a leg over so she could balance herself on Daisy’s lap, she said, “Couldn’t really do this with drinks in our hands, could we? Think of the poor couch.”

Daisy laughed into their next kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We can all have a little Dasira, as a treat. 
> 
> As always, please consider commenting if you enjoyed this chapter! I love hearing your thoughts!


	9. Climbing Ladders

Jon stank of cigarette smoke, and that was _always_ a bad sign. It wasn’t really Gerry’s place to judge, considering he’d been known to indulge in a few after a hard day at work, but he wrinkled his nose in distaste anyway. “Long night?” he asked, leaning his hip against the open door.

“Technically,” Jon started, and his voice was, well, it was what Gerry should have expected, considering the fact that Jon’s office currently smelled like the balcony of Gerry’s old flat (Michael forbade smoking on his property, and Gerry wasn’t really one to argue), “it wasn’t any longer than any other night.”

“Did you get any sleep?” It _looked_ like Jon was wearing different clothes than he had been the day before, but he always wore virtually indistinguishable outfits.

“Not really.” Jon looked up, and Gerry could appreciate the man’s dedication to the ‘potentially sexy but perpetually exhausted professor’ look. The circles under his eyes were so pronounced that Gerry noticed them even through the gloom of the office and the reflection of the dim light on his thick glasses. He looked _hungry_ too. “I had work to do.”

“We work in a library, Jon,” Gerry pointed out as gently as he could. “The world won’t crumble if you step away to get a good night’s rest.”

“I know.” Jon ran a hand through his hair, pulling a little as he did in a manner that reminded Gerry of Michael. “I just…I need to be doing something, you know? Or I…” He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to. Gerry understood.

“Get some sleep when you can,” he said, and with a soft smile, closed Jon’s door behind him.

***

The ladder wobbled dangerously under Gerry’s feet. He’d known when he started that doing anything on this particular ladder was an exercise in bravery and brainlessness, but Gerry was an expert in both. And, more importantly, there was work to be done, and there was shelving to be completed before he could leave for the day. Agnes Montague had dropped off an armful of books at half-four, and then Jared had dropped off an even bigger armful (all late returns) fifteen minutes later, and apparently Elias wanted every single one of them back in place before the library closed. It was pointless, truly pointless, but it was something for Gerry to do.

Something tapped the ladder. He wobbled for a moment, unsteady, before catching himself on the top step and glancing down. “Georgie!” he greeted.

“Get down from there.” Georgina Barker crossed her arms, glaring up at Gerry with the intensity of a thousand suns.

“Elias wants the returns shelved.”

“Elias can fuck himself with a chainsaw.”

And that was the thing about Georgie. She always said what was on her mind, regardless of how it might sound coming out of her mouth. Laughing, Gerry climbed down from the ladder and offered her a hug, which she accepted. “Here for Melanie, or Jon?” he asked.

“Neither. Researching for an episode.” She glanced up at the shelf he’d been working on, lip caught between her teeth, and then asked, “D’you want a hand with that?”

Gerry shrugged. “Wouldn’t hurt,” he said, and held the ladder for her as she clambered up. It shook a lot less under her feet, which Gerry pinned down to the fact that he was there to stabilise it (yes, he probably should have used a spotter, but who had the time?).

Once the last book was back in its place, Georgie looked down. “Are we done?”

Gerry checked the cart. “Looks like,” he said. She smiled, relieved, and climbed down.

“I think that ladder’s a human rights violation.”

“Take it up with Elias.” Gerry leaned into the cart, and Georgie leaned back against the shelf, watching him. “Can I help you find what you need, or…?”

With a wave of her hand, Georgie brushed off his offer. “I’ll be fine,” she said. “Go clock out.”

***

Michael was waiting for Gerry outside the doors to the library. “Thought I’d pick you up,” he murmured into Gerry’s kiss. As Gerry kissed him again, he said, “I should pick you up more often, I suppose.”

Gerry hummed. “You’ve been terribly neglectful,” he replied, glancing up at Michael through half-lidded eyes in what he hoped was a suitable imitation of a Jane Austen heroine. Michael responded in kind, pressing a hand over his heart and pulling his brows together in anguish.

“I’ve been away, darling,” he said.

“You’ve been on our sofa, you wanker.”

Michael laughed. He was dressed down for his day off, in a soft pink tunic and orange leggings, with a pair of tall black boots, a bow in his hair and his favourite opal septum ring nestled in the spot just above his cupids bow. He looked at odds with the grim shades of a London street at night, as out of place as he always did, but comfortable in his oddness. Gerry loved him all the more for it.

“How was work?” Michael asked as they started their walk home, lacing his fingers with Gerry’s. One of his rings dug into the soft pad of Gerry’s thumb, but he held on anyway. Occupational hazards and all that.

“It was work.” Gerry paused, debating. “Elias had me re-shelving right before closing.”

Michael raised one dark, carefully sculpted brow. “Pointless,” he said, soft and droning. “Did he put you up on that ladder again?”

“Yup.” Gerry popped the ‘p’ and listened to Michael’s dissatisfied grumbling. “It wasn’t all bad, though. I saw Georgie.”

“Was she there for Melanie, or Jon?”

“Neither. She was researching.”

“Oh?” Michael tilted his head to the side. “Is she coming out with a new episode soon?”

Gerry nodded. “I’d assume it’ll be up on Friday. It usually is.”

For the rest of the time, they walked in silence. Gerry didn’t mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thus concludes the second to last chapter of this fic!


	10. Sleep

Waking up next to Jon was wonderful. Working with him was _not._ “ _Mar_ tin,” he yelled, out of sight behind one of the precariously balanced piles of Archival nonsense, “have you seen that…this _thing_ Gertrude left down here?”

“What thing?” Martin really wasn’t sure he wanted to know, but he followed the sound of Jon’s voice anyway. There Jon was, crouched amongst several open boxes, nose wrinkled and lips pursed as he held up—“Is that _skin?”_

“Looks like it.” Jon dropped it gingerly back into its box and reached out a hand so Martin could help him up. His joints popped, and Martin gave a little snort of laughter before he could stop himself.

“I’m so sorry,” he started, but stopped dead as Jon met his ashamed gaze gaze with warm, loving eyes, a smile on his face. “Sorry. I shouldn’t laugh at you for…”

“For being decrepit?” The twinkle in Jon’s eyes was familiar and welcome, but it dimmed as he looked back down at the box of –of skin, apparently – with a disgusted furrow in his brow. “I don’t want to know what’s in the rest of those boxes,” the librarian said without an ounce of humour in his voice. “Martin, I’d like a cup of tea.”

“I assume you’re not going to make it yourself,” Martin jibed as they started towards the stairs that lead to the library proper. Jon grunted his confirmation, one hand gripping the bannister and the other reaching for Martin’s as they started their climb. “I’ll make it for you, but only because you’re my boss.”

Jon stopped, turning his head. He was grinning. “Only because?” he questioned lightly. “You sure you’re not just secretly madly in love with me?”

“Oh, shut up.”

Jon barked out a laugh. Martin loved the way Jon laughed; every time, it sounded like he was _surprised_ to be laughing, like it was unfamiliar territory, even though Martin knew that in the right company, he laughed often. It made Martin’s heart skip a beat.

***

“Keep your voice down.”

Jared Hopworth glared at Martin from under his thick brows. Despite being more than a decade older than Jared, Martin felt distinctly intimidated by him. God, since when had teenagers gotten this _large?_ Was it something new in the milk? Martain certainly hadn’t been that large in sixth form (well, at least not in height). Jared Hopworth was what his mum would have called a _big lad._ She’d called Martin that, once, but with hardly an ounce of the fondness he might have expected from his own mother.

So Jared Hopworth was large. He was large, and he seemed to hate Martin. At least, that was the impression he gave, slamming his books down on the cheap surface of the desk like he was trying to break it. “I’m just trying to check out these books,” he said, and loudly enough that several patrons looked up from their books and glared. Agnes Montague in particular seemed like she was trying to burn holes into Jared’s back with her eyes, but Martin knew she was far too shy to confront him.

“That’s all well and good,” said Martin, focusing his attention on the hulking mass that was apparently Jared Hopworth, “but if you wouldn’t mind lowering your voice, we _are_ in a library.”

Jared didn’t actually respond to that. He just folded his arms and waited for Martin to scan the barcodes on the rigid spines –apparently Jared had an affinity for gardening, which Martin would never have guessed, and for sewing – and slide them back across the desk one by one. He snatched each as it came to him, as though Martin might suddenly revoke his privileges and take them all away, and stomped off as soon as the transaction was finished. Martin sighed and leaned back in his rolling chair, trying not to be embarrassed when it creaked under his weight.

He tried to keep his thoughts positive. It was a Friday, which meant he and Jon were going to leave early. Michael was going to come in and do all the shelving and filing that had been overlooked during the chaos of the week, and the Magnus Library would be restored to the almost-peace that was its natural state. And for his part, Martin was glad he wouldn’t have to be involved in any of that nonsense. What he wanted most was a cup of tea, a good supper, and a long sleep.

***

Jon started yawning almost the second they got home. It was endearing, Martin thought, the way his body responded to a safe environment before his conscious mind did. Deliberately, with a motion broad enough for Jon to catch in his periphery, Martin reached out to rest a hand on the small of his back. His palm met soft wool, and underneath it the rigid creases of Jon’s rumpled button-up. Jon stiffened at first under his touch, as he usually did, but then softened, leaning into Martin’s side and bringing his own arm up to curl around Martin’s back.

“Long week?” Martin asked. Jon nodded, yawning again into the back of his hand, and Martin laughed fondly.

“Terribly sorry,” Jon mumbled, sleepy and still ever so polite.

“For being tired?”

“For being utterly, obnoxiously exhausted.”

“Nothing about you is obnoxious,” Martin pointed out. “Not to me, anyway. Never.” His heart thumped in his chest as Jon turned to look at him with such adoration in his eyes. It occurred to him in the back of his mind that Jon’s gaze had always made him feel _seen._ Now, that same gaze made Martin feel _wanted._ He hoped that his own eyes expressed a similar fondness, because Jon deserved to know how loved he was. “I love you.”

Jon smiled. It made the lines around his eyes deepen, and for a brief moment, Martin wondered if that’s how they’d gotten there in the first place. Smile lines, weren’t they? Or crows’ feet? Something like that. “I love you too,” Jon said softly, like he meant it.

They had a quick supper of various leftovers Martin had in his fridge. Jon leaned his chin on his hand throughout the meal, eyelids drooping further and further down. Earlier in their relationship, Martin probably would have thought Jon was trying to be sultry. Now, four months in, he knew Jon was just sleepy. “Early to bed?” he asked. Jon nodded.

“Let me help clear the plates,” Jon offered, but Martin waved his offer away.

“My flat,” he said, “I do the cleaning.”

“I’m hardly a guest at this point,” Jon mumbled under his breath, but he gave in to Martin with little resistance, wandering into the bathroom to (presumably) get ready for bed.

Martin hummed to himself as he did the dishes, and while he showered, and only stopped once he had tucked himself into bed next to Jon. The other man turned to look at him with soft, weary affection. “Ready for bed?” Martin asked, combing a back a lock of hair that was threatening to catch in Jon’s long lashes. Jon nodded and wordlessly shifted closer; instinctively, Martin curled close around Jon, interlocking their legs and tangling their fingers together. Lulled by the comfort of a familiar body against his, Martin fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there you have it, friends! The culmination of this work! 
> 
> I'll be adding more to this series, focusing on various relationships and situations, but here's the foundation, all laid down.


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